It’s been raining in San Francisco for…ever, I guess. Rain has been predicted every day for weeks. Meteorologists being what they are (surprisingly poor guessers, given, um, science), and us living in the sunniest neighborhood in the city, there have been a couple of nice days in there somewhere, but they fade in the memory, doused by the gallon buckets of water that pour down on our heads as we leave the house. In the new global warming world order, I guess San Francisco is will be Indonesia. Maybe we’ll start to get some sun when the monsoons aren’t in town.
Can I just say, on a separate note, that I hate our living room? Hang on – it could be a related note… Here you go: “Much like living in New York spoiled living in San Francisco for me, seeing the previous owners’ living room has made me hate what we’ve done with the place.” Yeah, that’s a stretch, but I’m disgruntled on both counts, so there’s your thread.
One of the owners was a painter, so the colors are subtle but true choices, and the décor was harmonious and cheerful. Room & Board meets someone less cheerful than Dr. Seuss but still very friendly. Our décor isn’t really décor, it’s furniture, and heavy furniture at that, and it weighs the room down.
One of the reasons I loved this house is that the backyard is not only done, which is surprisingly rare in the city where unused wild backyards abound, but well-done. Tiled steps and patio for a table and chairs, well-defined garden beds, sun deck and small lawn, all of which merges into the house at the living room’s double doors. It feels – well, felt – like there was an indoor living room and an outdoor living room. Except now, with our stuff in place, there’s an outdoor living room and your great uncle’s indoor furniture depository. Which is not the same at all.
You know that relationship you had in college with the guy who was a really very sweet but smoked a ton of pot and you thought, “If he were just stoned less, this relationship would be perfect,” and then he cut back and it turned out it wasn’t just that one thing at all and really you couldn’t stand him? It’s like that. It’s not just the Oriental rug (family heirloom, presumably expensive, dark, dark, dark) or the piano (excellent to have, hulking blackness along one wall) or the giant square coffee table (no redeeming value except storage, which we no longer need) or the blocky sofa (first one R. and I bought together – save your, “Aww!” until you’ve tried to lie down on it’s just-too-short-ness) or the waterfall of wires from all the electronics attached to our TV. It’s all of them colluding to make the room feel like we have poor taste and are maybe half-blind.
And I’d like to win the lottery. And I still want that pony. I promise I’ll feed it and take it for walks. Promise.